


If It Pleases The Court

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5836201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Vision of Time reveals a secret Varian would have preferred to keep in the past, he must come to terms with the choices he made regarding Garrosh Hellscream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It Pleases The Court

“Is it possible for a person who cares for his people and who is very intelligent to change?”

Varian’s grimace deepened. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his words were being twisted by the tauren Defender, but, he supposed, he had led himself down this road and had no choice but to follow it to its logical conclusion. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He took a breath, then said, quietly, “Yes. It’s _possible._ ”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I have no further questions for you.”

Varian’s eyes drifted to the wall to his right as he heard Tyrande rise from her seat. He pursed his lips in confliction: bitter to have been forced into such a corner but also, somewhere, in the back of his mind, unwittingly agreeing with his words; he felt like a “man divided” once more. Wondering what damage Tyrande might do came second to his own concern about the words he had just uttered before the court.

Unfortunately, he would have done better to prepare himself for the Accuser’s questions.

“Your Majesty,” Tyrande paused in front of him, and he turned his eyes to study her face. Her own mouth was set in a firm line, her expression a storm of emotions that was, at first incomprehensible to Varian. But as she opened her mouth to continue, the pieces started to fall into place. “Have you ever, now or in the past, had a personal relationship with the Accused?”

Varian felt as if his stomach had been kicked out from under him. Blood receded from his cheeks like an ebbing wave, only to be replaced by a surge of nausea that left him feeling thoroughly unprepared. Forcing his face to stay neutral, and directing a rare prayer to the Light that she wasn’t going _where he couldn’t help but fear she was going, because certainly Tyrande would value the Alliance and its peace more than that,_ he nodded, “Yes. In Northrend, we were…personal rivals, of a sort.”

Tyrande’s eyes narrowed. It was the only indication he needed to realize where this conversation was headed. He met her with a stare, hoping that she would read the desperation in his eyes and change her mind. But there was fury brewing behind her gaze, and she continued undeterred. “Personal rivals? Can you elaborate, your Majesty?”

“Fa’shua, I fail to see–” 

Varian had never been so pleased to hear a tauren’s voice, but it wasn’t long before Tyrande cut him off. 

“Fa’shua, King Varian is the only witness the defense has produced to support their case. I think that the reasoning behind that choice must be thoroughly explored. The court cannot understand his answers unless they know the full story.”

Taran Zhu glanced between the Accuser and the Defender, his mouth set in a thin line. Varian could feel Baine’s eyes on him, and for a fleeting moment, he wished he had warned him about his indiscretions. But he wasn’t the one on trial, and Tyrande was his ally. Surely someone would deflect this before it got out of hand. Surely–

“You may proceed, Chu’shao Whisperwind,” Taran Zhu’s voice rumbled. “But remember, it is beyond the scope of your duties to draw up a case against the witness.”

“Yes, Fa’shua.” 

There was a gasp in the stands to his left. Varian couldn’t be sure if it was the sound of one person, shocked by the ruling, or the sum total of murmurs and curious sounds being passed around the crowd. He didn’t need to turn his head to know his son watched with concern, or that Jaina had leaned forward a few inches in her seat and was now grasped the rail in front of them with white-knuckled hands. He tried his best to ignore them, and steeled himself for the onslaught. 

“We fought,” he found his voice once more, deciding that a verbal discussion would be better received than a visual, “Every time we were forced to see each other. This brought us into close contact, and because I had just come out of my...confusion, it went further than it should have.”

Tyrande passed by his chair, but failed to look at him, turning instead to the gnome-shaped dragon seated in front of the timepiece. “Chromie, please show the scene we prepared.”

If Varian was nervous before, it had now escalated to full-blown horror. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, not after everything that had happened, but somehow, seated here in a court with the eyes of both allies and enemies upon him, its clammy hands crept in and gave his chest a violent squeeze. His gaze strayed to Garrosh, who had abandoned his indifference and now watched him with raised brows. Their eyes met; Garrosh shifted in his seat. 

Realizing how any exchange of glances between them would soon be interpreted, Varian turned away and forced his attention on the scene unfolding, against his will, in the space in front of him. 

At first there was only a cave, its mouth lined with icicles that warped the view of an Argent Crusade banner fluttering in the background. Although Varian had rarely stood at this particular vantage point, he knew the location, and its view of the tournament grounds, all too well. For a pause, there was only the drip of ice and the echo of clashing lances in the wind, but then two voices broke through with a rumble from somewhere to the left of the opening.

“You fool, what were you thinking?” Varian heard an echo of his younger self grunt. He wasn’t used to hearing himself speaking Orcish; the words sounded heavy and awkward despite the relative ease with which he spoke them. He straightened his shoulders, trying to keep his breath steady.

“Fool? You call me a fool? You disrupted the entire tournament with your whining,” the past-Garrosh growled. His arm, uncharacteristically covered with armor, was soon visible from the mouth of the cave.

“I disrupted it? You were the one making comments about our soldiers, Hellscream! The whole coliseum heard you. And then you sent your own men to die by our hands? I promised Fordring–”

“Don’t talk to me about promises, Wrynn! You were egging your champions against us. I’m sick of your lies. Own up to the fights you cause.”

The two figures were now fully visible. Varian watched his younger self– his face lined with haughtiness rather than the stress that had set in recently– push Garrosh back into the cave. A few icicles shattered as they passed beneath them; stumbling, the orc grabbed a stone stalagmite and broke it at the tip. 

“My champions wanted to fight. They’re outraged at the thought of joining your _beasts_ at Icecrown Citadel.” Hearing a murmur of disapproval pass through the horde side of the courtroom, Varian chanced a glance in Go’el’s direction. The orc leader remained impassive; Varian wasn’t surprised. He only wondered how long that calm expression would last. 

“My soldiers know the taste of battle. We live it!” The past-Garrosh snapped, drawing Varian’s attention back to the exchange at the center of the room. He watched his own projection’s back as he advanced in Garrosh’s direction, wishing he could lean forward and grasp him, but knowing that no amount of wishing would stop what the past had to reveal. He tried to swallow; his breath stuck in his throat. 

“Your Alliance has nothing to offer but pampered nobles and the children of merchants, and you are no better. My people bend dragons to their will, and you can barely protect your own kingdom from them? You’re weak, Wrynn, and so are your people.”

But before the younger Varian could make his way over to the orc leaning against the back of the cave, just barely in sight of the audience, Tyrande waved her hand and the scene froze. Turning to Varian, her voice turned sharp. “Can you explain for the court what you were arguing about?”

Coughing, Varian managed to force down the lump in his throat. “We were at the Argent Tournament,” he quickly explained, trying to ignore how small his voice sounded next to hers. “We were preparing our troops for war against the Lich King, and Garrosh and I interrupted the tournament to make our champions fight one another.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Tyrande replied, her voice devoid of gratitude. “Chromie, please continue.” 

The figures sparked to life once more, and Varian watched in horror as his own projection advanced on the orc. He could remember the way the cold air had felt on his cheek as he rushed him, and how hot the skin of his neck had felt as he pinned him against the wall. Watching his double react to the sensation was like reliving a confusing dream: he flinched as the projection’s fingers clenched, and he leaned back as the projection leaned forward. Garrosh’s hand pushed back against the memory’s chest and he felt his own heart leap unexpectedly. 

It had been nearly eight years, but seeing it unfold again, after everything that had happened, brought him back to that moment; the reality of what he had done, the depth of his betrayal, welled up inside, and he knew that the audience would see it even more clearly. What had felt like a game had become a matter of absolute treason. He finally chanced a glance at Jaina, who regarded him with a look of utter confusion.

His past self landed a punch in Garrosh’s abdomen, and then a knee that drove him back into the wall. “Weak?” He hissed; his voice quivered in the air. “My people may be ‘nobles and merchants,’ but we never turned ourselves over to the Legion. It was your father who started it, wasn’t it, Hellscream? I hear he was eager to drink the monster’s blood. Maybe he saw a bit of himself in the face of evil. I hear he abandoned you in Nagrand’s squalor.”

Another fist connected with the orc’s midsection. He gasped but then quickly recovered, reaching around to grasp the king’s ponytail. Giving it a solid yank, he leaned forward, stopping when he lips were mere inches from Varian’s face. “Shut up,” he growled. “You don’t know–”

“At least I came back for my son, Hellscream. Grom must have known what a failure his boy would become.”

If Varian hadn’t known what was to come, he may have worried over these remarks and Anduin’s response. But given the circumstances, they passed through his mind as quickly as they had come, and even the snickers they elicited from the audience were not enough to break his focus. 

But the Garrosh of the past reacted with a jerk, dragging back Varian’s head one last time and then forcing him forward, not stopping until their foreheads knocked together. His own projection let out a growl and used his knee to force Garrosh against the wall. The orc, however, was unabated by this; he glared into Varian’s eyes, his large mouth parting in a snarl:

“You call me a failure, and yet here you are, Wrynn. Look at what you’ve become. Look at where your lack of restraint has taken you.”

Although his movement was quick, it seemed to play out in slow motion. Varian felt his own stomach lurch, a swill of emotions he couldn’t explain rising in his chest as he watched Garrosh’s mouth descend upon his. Someone in the audience let out a shriek; the rest of them seemed to hold a collective breath, freezing and waiting, as if clinging to the moment like the ice that hung in the cave above their heads. Nobody moved. He felt Garrosh’s eyes boring into him from across the room.

His past self paused for a moment, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, and then shooting Garrosh a look of indignation. Some of the tension in the room started to unwind, but Varian, knowing their belief in his resistance was misguided, could only press himself back into his chair and fight the shame that had descended upon his cheeks. He pursed his lips together; his past self clamped a hand around Garrosh’s throat and used it to drag him closer.

“And tell me, Garrosh,” he hissed. The sound quivered in the air above the rounded chamber. “Where you abandoned your hatred of humans. Surely the orc who mocked us in the arena wouldn’t be here begging for my attention.”

“I never beg.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Their mouths connected, and the entire room was in a state of chaos. Both Alliance and Horde leapt from their seats, stumbling over chairs and pressing against the railing separating them from the rest of the court. He caught Jaina, trembling and clutching the rail in front of her so hard he was sure it would snap in half. Beside her, Anduin stared with widened eyes. 

He couldn’t watch. He turned his head away, and his eyes fell once more on the projection from his past, the only sight that could distract him from the uproar threatening to spill out onto the courtroom floor. 

As Taran Zhu rose to his feet and demanded silence, and guards rushed in from all sides to remove the unruly parties, his past self worked his hand under Garrosh’s tabard and gave the front of his pants a pointed squeeze. His lips parted, and their tongues met in the space between their lips. Kissing Garrosh had always been so awkward. His past self tilted his head to try to get between the protruding teeth pressing against his cheeks. 

Tyrande studied his face; he felt all the rage and disgust that had taken shape in the stands surging to life within her white-blue eyes. Conscious of her stare, he forced his expression to remain neutral, an imitation of the statue that watched over his city. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to that city now, now that everyone knew the truth. What had he done? Why had he let these urges get the best of him?

 _Because I was young and confused. I didn’t know who I was back then, or what I could contribute to the world._ He reminded himself, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough when he was forced to answer for his actions before the court, and from the look in Tyrande’s eyes he was sure those questions would be anything but gentle. He braced himself; his past projection gave Garrosh’s belt a jerk and tossed it across the floor. 

“Enough!” He had nearly forgotten about Baine Bloodhoof until his voice rumbled from the far end of the courtroom. A glance in his direction brought Varian’s eyes directly to Garrosh, and they both bowed their heads to avoid the other’s gaze. Varian pursed his lips. 

“Fa’shua, surely...” The tauren sounded flustered. He drew in a breath, and then began again. “Surely the court realizes where this is heading. It will only be a spectacle if we let it continue like this.”

“Chu’shao Bloodhoof is right. Chu’shao Whisperwind, please wrap this up and continue with your questions.”

Tyrande nodded, and, with a slight click of Chromie’s fingers around the Vision of Time, the projections of Garrosh, Varian, and the cave vanished as quickly as they had come, leaving only a heavy silence in their wake. All of the unruly spectators had been removed, and everyone else stared, transfixed, at the kaldorei as she walked into the center of the room. She stopped directly between Varian and Garrosh, and opened her mouth to speak:

“Your Majesty,” Varian could tell that it was only with great difficulty that she formed the words. “Are you now, or were you ever, in love with Garrosh Hellscream?”

Another audience member let out a cry; a guard hurried from the side of the room to remove him from his seat. Varian’s nose wrinkled. “Certainly not.”

“Did you desire him?”

Fighting the urge to snap, he steeled his shoulders and pushed himself up in his seat. “At a time, yes, but not now.” A slight hitch in his breath betrayed his honesty, and he felt the tension to his left, at least, starting to soften. “It was a mistake. I haven’t stopped regretting it.”

But even while some members of the crowd started to relax, Tyrande remained as stiff as ever. “Why did you desire him? He has always been an enemy.”

“I think,” Varian felt his cheeks growing warmer, hoping that nobody else would notice. As embarrassing as the question was, however, he forced himself to answer with clarity. This might be his one chance at saving his dignity, and that of his people. “It was because I resented and despised him so much that seeing him reduced to...a certain state by me gave me some satisfaction.”

“And did he ever reduce _you_ to such a state, _your Majesty_?”

“Fa’shua!” Baine objected from his table at the other side of the room. Varian couldn’t bring himself to look at him. 

“Chu’shao Whisperwind, please remember who is the one on trial,” Taran Zhu let out a long exhale. “King Wrynn, you do not need to answer that.”

“Thank you, Fa’shua.”

With a quick shake of her head, Tyrande moved on with her questions. Varian waited with a clenched jaw. “Your Majesty,” she continued, “Did you continue seeing Garrosh after his rise to the position of Warchief?”

Oh. Oh no. So this was where she was planning on taking this. He pressed his hand against the rail in front of him, trying his best to keep his tone level. “For a brief time, yes.”

“When did you end it?”

He finally chanced a glance at the crowd, scanning their faces, and finally letting his gaze fall back on Tyrande. Swallowing a lump that he hadn’t previously noticed in the back of his throat, he responded: “Shortly after the bombing of Thal'darah Grove. I met with him one last time, and I ended it.”

Doing little to acknowledge him as she passed, Tyrande made her way to the bronze dragon and the timepiece sitting in front of her on the table. “Chromie, can you please play the other scene we selected to show the court?” The night elf’s voice seemed to lose its edge, but Varian didn’t let this trick him into believing this memory would somehow clear his name. 

In fact, if his guess about the selection was correct, it would prove to be utterly disastrous. 

The Vision hummed and clicked to life, and a second scene took shape at the center of the room. Garrosh lay in a small bed with a garish black-and-white striped blanket across his lap. Varian, seated on the corner of the mattress wearing nothing but cloth trousers, gazed out towards the metal portal of a door. Rain hammered on the building’s metal roof, filling the temple with the echoes of its frantic song. Varian’s projection let out a groan; Garrosh lifted his head to stare at his back.

This was it, then, Varian realized. Letting out a low exhale of his own, he tried his best to replay the conversation they had had in his mind before it unfolded in the space in front of him, looking for some way to turn this in his favor. But the more he thought about it, the worse it sounded. He balled his hands into fists in his lap, his metal gloves clanging together.

The projection of himself stirred and turned to face them. Tyrande nodded, and the scene froze. “Your Majesty, can you please tell the court where you are, and why?”

Varian answered, a bit too loudly, “We’re off the coast of Azshara, on a small island. A storm came up and trapped us for several hours.”

“Why were you there in the first place?”

He made the mistake of glancing over at Garrosh when he lifted his head to address the rest of the court. The orc’s brows had narrowed, and his lips protruded into a sneer around his teeth. Varian shut his eyes for a moment, and then continued, “The goblins of Azshara offer...discrete accommodations for a high price.”

“I see,” Tyrande all but snapped; Varian could tell that it was taking a high degree of self-control on her part to keep the discussion professional. And frankly, he couldn’t blame her. “And how did someone with your responsibilities and obligations manage to escape to such...‘discrete accommodations?’” 

“Chu’shao Whisperwind–” Taran Zhu started to warn, but Varian fielded the question, knowing there was nothing left but honesty, “I was on my way to meet with you and your husband, Malfurion Stormrage, to discuss the Alliance’s next move in the region.”

“I see.” Tyrande’s reply was as blunt as Varian’s answer. She waved her hand, and the scene began.

The projection of Garrosh gazed up at Varian’s back from his position on the bed, letting out a growl and reaching for Varian’s forearm. His fingers closed around it; Varian could still remember how rough his hand had felt against his skin. “What could you need to discuss with them?”

“You, for one,” his past self let out a sigh, shaking him off. “Garrosh, Stonetalon Mountains? Really?”

“I didn’t give that order, Wrynn!” The vision of Garrosh sat up in the bed, the fabric around him pooling in a pile across his lap. He crossed his arms, and regarded the human with a look that could only be characterized as defensive. “Overlord Krom’gar has paid with his life for his crime. I do not stand behind his actions.”

“Try telling that to them.” His past self slumped forward slightly; exasperation could be heard mounting behind every word. When had he started sounding so tired? He hadn’t realized at the time how much he struggled to maintain his noble posture. “And their list doesn’t end there. Ashenvale, Azshara, even _Darkshore_? For Light’s sake, Garrosh, what were you thinking?”

Garrosh’s defensive stance persisted, but his tone became downright accusatory. “You have never complained about the changes we made to Azshara,” Garrosh countered, his lips spread into a snarl. “Look at you. Look where you are. Don’t bring your hypocrisy to me, Varian Wrynn.”

But, despite the anger that Varian knew to be welling in his chest at that moment, his past self didn’t rise to the bait. “I am only recounting their charges against you, Hellscream. It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t think about Azshara: this was their land.”

“And what were they doing about the dragons? Where were they when their naga cousins assaulted its shores? In their palace in the sky, while _my people_ slayed their enemies and protected ourselves from the mess they made. And now they begrudge us for giving it to our allies? Their arrogance astounds me!”

“You didn’t _have_ to let the goblins turn it into this... flashing monstrosity. Show some respect for the past, at least. I thought _your people_ valued things like that. Or was that just under the Warchief they actually respect?”

The Garrosh of the past let out a low growl. Varian watched as his own projection turned to sneer at him. A long pause set in between them; they had never done well when they were forced to make conversation, no matter how many times they connected in more visceral ways. Garrosh’s projection shifted, and Varian’s leaned back against the headboard to his left.

“My people were dying in the streets. Orgrimmar was in ruins. What were we supposed to do? We have nothing in Durotar: _Nothing._ Without lumber and metal and the goblins’ machines, we would have died.” Garrosh paused, and then added. “You would have done the same, Wrynn, and you know it. They’re just trees.” 

“And you’re _just orcs_ to the kaldorei, Garrosh. In their eyes, your life is worth less than those trees, and there will always be humans who agree with them.”

“But not you.” The Garrosh of the past shot Varian a look from his place beside him on the bed. Their eyes met, and, after a few moments, the human’s face contorted into a mix of shock and displeasure. The lines around his mouth deepened; Garrosh’s projection leaned back. 

“I value the lives of living people more than rocks and trees,” his past self finally answered: simply, firmly. There was another break in the conversation. In the silence, Varian could hear whispers rippling through the Alliance side of the temple. He pushed himself up in his chair, forcing his eyes to stay fixed on the scene.

“But as the leader of the Alliance, it is _my duty_ to protect the elves and their sacred lands,” his past self broke through the chatter that filled the room. “I can’t keep doing this, Hellscream. I can’t let you put me in this position. We’re done. It’s over.”

Remembering all too well the fight that had followed, Varian was surprised when the scene simply faded into the air. Another stunned silence came in its wake, punctuated only by the sound of Tyrande’s footfalls as she approached his chair. She looked at him, and for a moment he was certain that she could hear his heart pounding beneath his chestplate. 

“Can you explain,” her voice wavered, her request sounding more like a conversation between the two of them than a declaration to the court, “What just happened?”

He averted his eyes. At the other side of the room, Baine rose to his feet, as if waiting for the chance to protest. “Garrosh and I were discussing the war in Kalimdor and the reasoning behind his logging ventures in Ashenvale.”

“And you agreed with what he was doing?”

Varian sat up, stiffer than ever, in his chair. “As I said, I understood why he did it, but I valued my alliance with the kaldorei too much to advocate for him.”

“So you were only concerned about losing your alliance with us, but, given the chance, would have supported the Horde’s cause?”

“That’s not what I–”

“Fa’shua, Chu’shao Whisperwind is putting words into the witness’s mouth.”

“Please desist from the question, Chu’shao Whisperwind.”

The kaldorei leader let out a long exhale, turning and pacing back into the center of the room. “King Wrynn, do you think your relationship with Garrosh clouded your judgment when making decisions about Kalimdor?” 

Although nobody spoke, Varian could hear the room hum to life at the sound of her question; the Horde exchanged glances, and the Alliance fidgeted in their seats as they awaited his reply. He shot a glance in their direction. Jaina’s eyes blazed with fury and betrayal when their gazes met. “No,” he said, as if speaking directly to her. “I have always put the needs of the Alliance first. What happened between Garrosh and I was never more than sex to me.”

“Then why did you end it? You said yourself that you couldn’t let him put you in ‘that position.’ What position was that, Varian?” She dropped all pretense of formality, interrogating him like one would interrogate a child. “Why did you say that?”

This was it, the question that he had been dreading. Swallowing and struggling to neutralize his expression, he looked first at the crowd, and then at Tyrande, careful not to let his gaze rest on Garrosh as it moved around the room. He finally resorted to staring at the bar in front of him, studying it as he opened his mouth to speak. “I–” He coughed, and then started again. “I could tell by looking at him that he had gotten...attached. I ended it because of that.”

“You ended it because you thought he had feelings for you?”

“...That’s what I said, yes.”

“Not because of the bombing of Thal'darah Grove, or the destruction of Ashenvale and Azshara, or simply because he was Warchief of the Horde, but because _he had feelings for you_?”

“That’s what I said, yes,” he repeated, shooting a glance in Taran Zhu’s direction. But this time, the pandaren remained silent; his eyes, wide beneath his furry brow, betrayed his own surprise. 

“And do you think his feelings persisted?” Tyrande pointed in Garrosh’s direction, but Varian avoided rising to her invitation to look at him. He clenched his jaw; she stepped forward. “Do you think his further actions against the Alliance: the bombing of Theramore, the war on Pandaria, his attempt to kill _your own son_ , may have been, in part, a way at getting back at you?”

“Garrosh has always hated the Alliance!” He cursed himself for sounding so angry as the words tumbled from his mouth, but couldn’t hold back the heat rising in his chest. “He hated the Alliance when we were together, and he hated us after I ended it. You can’t possibly say that it was _my fault_ –”

“Nobody has said that but you,” Tyrande crossed her arms, speaking directly to the court. “I want to remind you, King Wrynn, that during Anduin Wrynn’s testimony we heard Garrosh rejoicing at the thought of killing him, not because he was Alliance, but because he was your son. Could it have been an act of revenge?”

“I...” He trailed off. Of course not, he wanted to snap. Garrosh was heartless, and his actions were fueled by his hunger for power, not personal scorn. Surely nobody would believe that Garrosh had done....what? Slaughtered thousands of humans over a broken heart? And yet, he had attacked Anduin because he was Varian’s son. He had said just that. A wave of dread passed over him, drawing the color from his cheeks and settling like an anchor in the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes, and curtly, finally, replied: “It’s... possible.”

“King Wrynn, would you say that Garrosh’s choice to bed you was an act of treason against the Horde?” 

“I... suppose.”

“And your choice to _consort_ with Garrosh? Was it an act of treason against the Alliance?”

He lifted his head to respond, his voice tired and defeated. “...Yes.”

Tyrande nodded. The weight in his chest gave a painful lurch. “As Varian Wrynn has confessed to treason against his people, I ask that the support he has shown for the defense’s case, both here and at the moment of the defendant’s capture, be struck from the record and removed from consideration during the sentencing phase of the trial.”

And with that, after another collective breath, the courtroom roared to life.


End file.
